Trapped
by DeUtvalda
Summary: Cammie is trapped and imprisoned during a mission after bringing down the CoC, and left in basement for torture. But she's not the only one there from Gallagher... Will they make it out alive?
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hello Fanfiction! This is my first GG story, so please, don't be nice. And I know it's short, but I wanted to post this right now, and I have to go to bed soon, so.. **** I'll try to make the other chapters longer. This was fun to write! If something bothers you, don't hesitate to attack me about it!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Gallagher Girls series! Gaaah!**

* * *

I am sitting in an empty room. The windows are covered with thick, dark pieces of cloth, which are nailed to the walls, stopping even the tiniest slivers of light to escape into this concrete prison.

Chains wrap around my body to hinder any semblance of movement, and my hands are shackled to the cement behind me just in case I would manage to escape them anyway. I probably could. I mean, I am a Gallagher Girl, after all. We can get out of anything.

Although, right now, it's starting to look kind of hopeless.

I take a deep breath, and I can feel how my already wet clothes stick to my body even more. The air in here is so hot and humid; it's a wonder that it even makes it into my lungs. I take a second to analyze the situation, but I am still drowsy from the sedative they gave me, so the details are a little fuzzy.

Judging by the temperature and humidity of the room I'm in, I am still in Columbia – or at least the northern part of South America. I am above ground (they would not have windows if I wasn't), and probably still in the jungle. The information the Gallagher Academy gave me pointed to their base of operations being somewhere along the borders of Columbia and Venezuela; I'll have to guess that is where I am now. This is most definitely some kind of bunker/holding cell…

And I am utterly screwed.

Seriously, what I would not give for Bex, Macey, or even _Liz _(seriously, _LIZ!_) to bust in through the door (I can feel a slight draft coming from my left; that's where the entrance is), or for Zach to somehow kill all the stupid guards that I am certain are posted all around this building. And, you know, free me from all of these chains and get me the hell out of here!

My recently dyed hair is plastered to my forehead like it's been dipped in glue, and I cannot for the life of me remove the stupid strands, and _damn_ does that make me pissed!

The muted _thuds_ of footsteps and the squeak of a door opening pulls me out of my fit. Subconsciously I have been counting the time, and I know that exactly 3 minutes and 37 seconds have passed since I woke up.

_38, 39, 40…_

"Finally awake I see, miss Morgan," a voice says from above me. It is one I do not recognize, though I can tell immediately that it belongs to a Hispanic male of circa 25 years of age. The opening of the door let in a small beam of sunlight gave me half a second to take in my surroundings, but it was already gone by the time the man decided to speak.

"Who are you?" I ask weakly. I am quite disappointed in myself for not coming up with anything smarter or wittier than that, but right now, it's all I can do to open my mouth.

The man chuckles. I can hear the sounds we are all (including the men that have to be some kind of body guards) making echo of the walls, making me flinch. I have not noticed my headache until now, but once I do, it's hard as hell to ignore. The noises split through my brain, making it pound unpleasantly.

_Pain._ The word sends shivers down my spine.

Are they going to torture me?

"And I thought you were a smart one. I –" he steps closer, and I wince once again from the pain it sends through my scull. " –am Rafael Fabregas (A/N: he is in no way connected to the football player!). Or, as you may know me, Antonio Santiago. Really, I go by many things. You, of all people should be familiar with the term _alias_, seeing as you have several yourself."

_4 minutes_

"You're the leader of the cartel, then," I whisper. As soon as I utter those few words, a large, cold hand covered in a latex glove grabs my chin, forcing it upwards towards what I am assuming to be his face by the way it keeps sending small puffs of air that smell disgusting,

"I am no mere leader," he hisses, his breath making my nose wrinkle. "I am _the leader_. I control every goddamn operation in this part of the world, I _own_ the entire continent!"

Yeesh, is this man full of himself or what? I let out a breathy laugh (even though it hurts like hell), and spit in his (at least, I think it is) his face.

That was not a good thing t do. At all.

I swear I can _feel_ his expression turning murderous as he lets go of my head. I inhale deeply out of sheer relief (really, his hand was _not_ pleasant), only to be cut off by a fist hitting my face.

"Fucking bitch," he swears as my head flies backwards, the headache multiplying by a thousand.

He must have made some sort of signal that I missed while he hit me, because I once again hear the sound of footsteps hitting concrete, and briefly note a small flash of light as they go out the door quickly.

But I am not fooled by their departure.

They will be back. And when they are, my face will not be the only thing that hurts.

* * *

**A/N: Whoo! That was short! Again, this is my first GG story, and my second one over all, so please, give me some pointers, correct my grammar, nag at me about the tenses, I don't care, as long as you tell me when something's bothering you! English is not my first language, so I haven't really learnt a lot of grammar and stuff in school. I love everyone who reads this… **


	2. The Grant-Rafael Connection

**A/N: Helloo again! What a pleasure to see you all again.. lol. This chappy is pretty short, and the gang isn't in it yet, but hang in there! They're on their way! Let's continue on with the disclaimer..**

**Zach: Yeah, this loser without a life doesn't own the Gallagher Girls series. *sexy smirk***

**Me: OMG ZACH GOODE SMIRKED AT ME!**

* * *

I sit there, shackled to the wall, for hours (6 hours, 5 minutes, 13 seconds) before something happens again, other than me being completely helpless and unable to move, that is. I have not drunk anything for God knows how long (although I suspect between 17 and 14 hours have passed since they captured me), and it is taking a toll on my body. My throat is dry – the heat, even though it's humid, isn't exactly helping, either - and my headache has spread to the rest of my body. The only areas left untouched by it are my arms, which are starting to go numb. I don't know whether or not to be grateful for the lack of feeling.

Anyway, once I notice footsteps once again coming my way, I try to look a little less pathetic – but then I remember, it's too goddamn dark in here for it to matter.

At least it wouldn't. But then, the doors open, and this time, it's more than a beam of light that escapes into the room, and it does not go away. I squint, allowing my eyes some well-needed time to adjust, but before I can open them fully again, a smashing impact throws my head into the wall. The back of my skull connects with the concrete wall, and I can taste blood in my mouth. The same sticky substance is now running down my neck, and it brings even more warmth I do not want to my body.

At least it's pain. I've been trained for this, hell, I've even experienced it before. The fact that I can't remember it is irrelevant right now.

Anything is better than being trapped here, doing nothing, and not being able to do anything about it.

I clench my jaw, turn my head back the way it was before, and open my eyes. The light comes from seven flashlights made of sturdy, black plastic and metal, and they all have a mass of ca 100 cubic centimeters. The men holding them are dressed in typical guerilla fashion, dark green cargo pants, combat boots and black wife beaters that show off their many tattoos. Windows are covered in black fabric just as I assumed; I knew I would never be wrong about something like that. My eyes shift to their leader, and I almost yell, the shock is so overwhelming.

That, that . . . man . . . that's…

I thought his name was Rafael!

"What the hell, Grant?"

Grants lookalike chuckles, a terrible, cold sound, and takes a few steps towards me, just like he did earlier (the henchman that hit me before stands a foot to my right now), and fixes his brown, almost golden, eyes on me.

"Oh, so you know my brother, do you?"

I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. It's not Grant. It's not.

Good. Because, if it were, I swear to God I would have broken out of my chains and beat the shit out of him.

But it's not, so I let my greyish blue eyes pin his with an unflinching stare. He doesn't even react, just puts one foot in front of the other so he is even closer to me than before.

"I said, do you know my brother?"

I sit there, paralyzed, trying to speak but no words come out of my mouth. Desperately, my lips move against each other, my tongue performs the correct movements, and I will my throat to vibrate, but I remain silent. Frustrated, and pretty damn angry, I struggle against the thick metal links that keep me rooted to the spot, but I only succeed in making it twice as painful for my body.

Rafael sees this, and his golden-brown orbs narrow into thin slits, not unlike mine when they tried to adjust to the, by comparison, bright light.

"_Puta_," he mutters, before making some kind of gesture with his right hand (it is shockingly similar to a salute, only he chooses to wave his palm instead of just holding it to his forehead). Seconds later, the metallic taste of blood fills my mouth once again, and I gag.

"Yes, I know your brother," I manage to hiss at him before the red fluids almost choke me, and I have to spit them out. They land on the floor in a pool of scarlet, and I watch, mesmerized, as it spreads, staining the floor below it.

A harsh kick to my stomach pulls me back into reality. A rough hand adorned with several rings that dig into my skin forces my head up, and I am met with Rafael's morning breath, even worse than it was 6 hours, 6 minutes and 37 seconds ago. I try to pull away, but the back of my head is restrained by five long fingers twisted into my hair.

"Good. But we have some more pressing matters at hand right now," he says quietly, threateningly, and I can't help it; I shudder. His lips curve up into a triumphant smirk.

"Like – what?" I spit out, my voice full of hatred. He merely moves his thumb to caress my cheek. I can't help but compare him to Zach – beautiful, no, _hot, _Zach, whose touch makes me shiver with want, not disgust, and whose smirk is a gift from the gods.

What?! I can't help the fact that he is the physical embodiment of sexy!

"Oh, I don't know, what would you like to discuss?" The way his breath fans out over my face makes me want to puke. He is the most revolting man I have ever met. "Oh wait, now I remember! How about –" he pauses here, trying to add some theatrical suspense that reminds me of Bex. " –how you killed my good friend Catherine Goode? Now _that_, that is something I would very much like to discuss with you." He accentuates the last part with a few swift hits that robs me of my ability to breathe, but not think.

He knew Zach's mother?


	3. The return of Zach Goode

**A/N: Hi! Sorry for my...er...disappearance, but I'm back now, kinda. I've been in Spain, and I've had a shitload of homework, and just haven't felt like writing. Anyway this chapter features the return of Zach Goode, but it's short, like all my chapters, and I'm really sorry for that :( **

**Disclaimer: I do not, in any way, own the Gallagher Girls series.**

* * *

In, out. In, out. Deep breaths, Cammie.

I try to make my lungs function again, but between the pain in my solar plexus and the shock of finding out Rafael knew Catherine, it's practically impossible. My body just won't listen to my mind, and it's driving me _insane._ At this rate, I'll die of asphyxiation before I even have a chance to break out of this place.

Which brings me to the next point.

If Rafael's goal is not torturing me for information, I am in deep shit (Normally I wouldn't swear, but time has changed me, and anyway, this situation definitely calls for some cussing). He will not hesitate to end my life, and frankly, I think I might prefer dying right here, right now, rather than at the hands of a revenge-driven killer machine.

But I am a Gallagher Girl. And we don't give up.

Suddenly, the air returns to my system, and I inhale, grateful for the oxygen starting to flow into my organs. I realize I am hyperventilating, and try my best to stop the shaking, but to no avail. I am still trembling like a leaf.

But, hey, at least I can breathe, right?

I lift my head to stare defiantly at the (revolting) man in front of me. His (gorgeous) lips are set in a smirk, but his eyes promise no mercy. Well that settles it, then.

I have come here to die.

"Y-you knew Catherine," I stammer out, but it's phrased as a statement, not a question. I try to make it sound as bold as my stare, but it comes out feeble and weak, the tones following the quick movements of my body. It almost sounds as if I'm about to cry.

I see a flash of silver, and gold metal touches the pulsing vein in my throat. (Folding knife. Blade ca 14 cm long. Practical, since it doesn't take up much space. Judging by the way he holds it, it is dear to him, and has likely shed blood many times before.)

He chuckles, again, and the cold sound travels through the humid air like death. A finger strokes my chin almost affectionately, but the sharp pain by my neck tells me otherwise. He plans to kill me, sure – but he'll take his time, no doubt, dragging it out as long as possible. Whatever Rafael's connection to Catherine was, my killing her makes him thirst for Morgan blood.

_Please. Bex, Macey, Liz…Zach…Mr Solomon, Aunt Abby, mom… Forgive me if I don't survive._

A few spoken words (six, to be exact) bring me out of my thinking.

"And that son of hers, too." Here, he pauses, for dramatic effect or something, I don't know, but the way he says it makes my blood run cold. "Would you like to see him?"

Time stops. I am paralyzed. I can do nothing but watch as two more henchmen walk into my cell, dragging a brown-haired boy covered in bruises between them.

_Zach._

.o.O.o.

I had a dream, once. I dreamt that we took down the Circle, that Zach and I killed Catherine Goode. That we would be all right, no worries. We would survive. But then came a mission, and I was captured. Tortured. Shackled to a wall with no escape. But at least Zach and the others were okay. Except, all my hopes were crushed as the guerilla members shoved a boy in front of me, a boy I had only seen in my thoughts, a boy that made me feel safe, feel loved. A boy that was Zach Goode.

But then I woke up, and realized it wasn't a dream at all. It was real.

My closed eyes open, and I scream.

"_Zach!"_

That name. That small, insignificant name. It becomes so huge, so overwhelming, once you pair it up with him. So beautiful, so powerful, so incredibly _devastating. _Just like him, and just like him, I can't help but love it, love how it rolls off my tongue, love how it colors everything around it to something magical.

Hate how it destroys everything I believe in as I shout it in despair.

"_Zach! What have you done to him?"_

He can't hear me. He's not conscious. He's not…here. Not really.

Why?

Why did they do that to you, Zach`?

Why won't you wake up?

A cough. A splutter. Two perfect spheres of red liquid fly from your mouth to where I'm sitting, landing a foot away.

But I can't see them anymore, can't see you.

He's in the way, they're in the way, I can't see, can't hear, can't think, and please and please and please –

Now I'm sounding like Juliette. From Shatter Me.

Except that she would be able to break out of these chains, and save you. Unlike me.

Just . . . don't die on me, Zach. Please.

"_I love you."_

.o.O.o.

**Zach POV**

Someone's screaming my name.

That much I can tell.

It's a miracle, I suppose. In this darkness, there isn't much of anything, so actually hearing something (even though it might be just a hallucination) is a real relief.

But . . . I recognize that voice. It's Cammie. I would know that anywhere.

"_Zach! What have you done to him?"_

Wait - what? This doesn't belong. That sounds way too real to be in my, well, whatever this is.

I can feel my body again, and slowly, so slowly, I lift my heavy eyelids to peer out at the world.

What I see makes me think twice about waking up.

Cammie. She is attached to the wall by silver chains, but my view of her is obscured by some douchebag with a knife to her throat. Her skin is bloody and discolored, black and purple splotches covering almost every inch of it.

I try to take a breath, but end up coughing up blood, instead. They've kept me here for a while, now, about two days, punishing me for killing my mother. But I wasn't alone in doing it, and I guess they figured that out. But why _her? _Why? Sure, we were the ones who killed Catherine, but was it really necessary to bring her, too?

Just the sight of her makes me want to kill every last one of these bastards for doing this to her.

"I love you."

The words are spoken so softly, I can barely hear them, and wouldn't have if they didn't come from her.

She loves me?

I love her, too.

But the way she says it, so broken, so despaired, leads me to think this is not something she would have revealed in any other situation than this.

But I need to say it back, now.

Not because I want to – though I do – but because she has to hear it, to stay strong. She looks about ready to collapse. After Dr. Steve's drugs, her mental health hasn't been the same, and I can see, now, that she is this close to breaking again.

"I love you, too."

Stay strong, Cammie. You're not supposed to die just yet.

* * *

**A/N: Don't kill me. I LOVE YOU ALL!**


End file.
